Ibis and Muscovy

Still on the bird thing.  Seriously, who does not love a bird?  Well, those jays can be annoying, that's for sure.  And goose poop isn't fun to walk or run on.  But other than that, who is not in love with birds?

Change of landscape, change of scenery.  Change of birds.  The ibis are particularly enchanting.  They love to hang out together; I have yet to see a lone ibis.  If you aren't sure what an ibis is, take a minute here and google image them.  Yes, they are white, like an egret, but look at that beak!  Look at those red legs!  I can watch them from my balcony as they pick out the insects in the ground with those amazing beaks.  Just try to imagine having an appendage like that jutting out from your face.  What would you use it for?

The Muscovy ducks are a riot.  They, too, like to hang out in a group.  To watch them waddle along, one behind the other, on their way to the pond in back is hilarious.  And I can't even tell you why.  All I know is that I cannot take my eyes off them.  I am guessing that the larger ones, the ones with the bloody red faces, are the elders.  There are so many smaller brown ducks around . . . Muscovy teenagers?  And all of them, ibis and duck, co-exist with the feral cats.

I took a walk down to the pond in back this evening.  The ibis flew overhead, over trees, circling around and settling back down not far from where they started.  The ducks continued their never-ending waddling, never sure of a destination or purpose.  Just waddling.  And the teenage ducks watched them, learning the ropes.  The feral cats skittered away, as if they don't know that I am a lover of cats, and of one in particular.

I am in love with these birds, these ducks, these cats, these reminders that there is life all around and if we're smart, we get to watch it.

Flight

No, it's not that I am in love with flying.  There is nothing lovable about being confined to an uncomfortable seat in Economy Class (and let's start calling it what it really is, folks . . . steerage) for hours.  But I am in love with the idea of flight and how it can change my landscape in a relatively short time.  Don't get me wrong.  I also love a road trip and the long and languid way in which it can change my landscape, as well.  But sometimes, you just want to get there fast.  Flight is amazing.

Although the drive to the airport, the check-in, the security hassle (happily, I was TSA Pre-checked this time), the boarding, and all of that can take hours, the actual flight from New Jersey to Florida was just a little over two hours.  These palm trees and warm breezes are a welcome change, especially since there is a sleet and freezing rain advisory at home tonight.  Yes, at the very end of March.

The book that I brought with me on the plane was titled, oddly enough, The Book of Dead Birds by Gayle Brandeis.  I did not pick up on the possible foreboding when I selected the book from Jenna's collection.  I am now relieved, however, that the bird I flew in, a brand new Airbus 320, arrived safely.  Especially since Katrina made me watch the first episode of Lost tonight with that terrible plane crash.

Some people say that they can fly in dreams.  I have never recalled doing that.  But many times, I have been able to levitate, to move myself from one place to another by extreme concentration.  And it seems so very possible to be able to do that in my waking life, I am somewhat puzzled why I can't.  Perhaps it's just a memory.  Or a promise.

Anyway, here I am, small miracle.  Coffee at the kitchen table, watching the birds of Florida in flight outside my window.  Love.

Que Sera Sera

I was only six years old when Doris Day recorded the hit Que Sera Sera, but I remember it as well as I remember any song from the soundtrack of my life.  The sappy melody and pedestrian lyrics became a staple of post-WWII pablum, right there with Mom and apple pie and Chevy sedans.  And Spam.  In the late 60s, it was the signature song for The Doris Day Show, and I can still see Doris and her guests at the end of the show, swaying from side to side as they sang, with many tears in the corners of people's eyes.  And all of America was watching.

"What will be will be."  I guess today's version is "It is what it is."  As dismissive as these adages (if one could call them that) are, they do have some wisdom to impart.  We are a nation of control freaks, so "letting go" is a skill that we have to be reminded of again and again.  Yes, The Beatles got our attention with Let It Be, but our short-term memories quickly forgot their words of wisdom.

I don't know why the Que Sera Sera song popped in my head today.  (And I do apologize if it is now in yours.)  I mean, it certainly is not on my iPod.  My guess is that after riding the emotional roller coaster I've been on regarding my cat, I have given myself over to the fates.  I have done what I can do, I have arranged loving care for my cat in hopes of keeping her alive during my absence, and tomorrow morning, I will be leaving on a jet plane.  I will be away less than a week, and if Cassie survives while I am away, on my return I will devote myself, again, to loving her while her body figures out what it intends to do.  Or not do.  Que sera sera.

So there is some peace there.  Some acceptance.  It's all out of my control now.  Do I need to explain how liberating that is?  Think of control and what words come to mind?  Frustration, determination, attention, inflexibility, certainty, close-mindedness, power, retribution.  Now think of letting go.  Relaxation, freedom, open-mindedness, acceptance, lightness, peace.  Que sera sera.

The future's not ours to see.  Duh.

Timing

When my husband was dying of cancer, existing in a morphine haze, he offered me some advice.  He told me to "pay attention to timing and the alphabet."  Having no idea what he meant by that, I assured him that I would.  I've lost count of the times that those words have come back to me, pointing me in a direction I never would have found otherwise.  And they came back to me today.

When I went to bed last night, I was 99% convinced that I would be putting my cat down today.  I'd already scheduled the appointment for 4:20 this afternoon.  And then I woke up this morning to see that not only had my cat pooped (for the first time in a week) but she had also eaten at some point during the night (again, for the first time in a week).  So now I was no longer 99% certain.  I struggled throughout the day, and as the hours drew me closer to the 4:20 "deadline," I'd worked myself into quite a state.  There were arguments compelling me in both directions, and I was dizzy with the indecision.

And then I received a text message.  Tracy is a friend of my daughter Jenna, the one who is living in Australia.  Over a week ago, Jenna had asked Tracy if she might be able to stay here with Cassie while I am away next week.  I had avoided contacting Tracy, simply because I was so unsure of what I was going to do.  But here was Tracy, taking a risk, contacting me to ask if she could help.  Timing?

Fast forward to a couple of hours later.  Tracy came over after work to meet me and Cassie.  ("Work" is as a veterinary assistant at a nearby animal hospital . . . could this be more perfect?)  Now, Tracy and I have some mutual friends, and her older sister was a student of mine, but I didn't think Tracy and I had ever met.  But as soon as I opened the door, I realized that it was Tracy who had ushered me into an examination room when I'd taken Cassie on an emergency visit to the very animal hospital where Tracy works about a month ago.

So Tracy fell in love with Cassie, I cancelled the euthanasia appointment, I have cobbled together three caring friends to look after Cassie while I am gone, and the weight of the world is off my shoulders . . . for a little while anyway.

So you might wonder where the "alphabet" part of Pete's words comes in.  Maybe this is a stretch, but I'll buy it.  When Tracy texted me, I asked her for an email address, as I still have a "dumb phone" and texting is not that easy.  The first three letters of Tracy's email address, obviously her initials, are "teh."  My "nickname" is Terry, and I was often just "Ter."  But my very best friend's boyfriend, with his New York accent, always called me "Teh" and it caught on.  I know it's a stretch, but I made a promise that I would pay attention to timing and the alphabet, so pay attention I have.

All I know is that I feel lightened.  I feel hopeful.  I feel blessed.  I paid attention.

Compassion

If you love somebody, set them free.  ~ Sting

Okay, I have always hated that Gordon Sumner, who lays claim to having been an English teacher before he became Sting, could so blatantly abuse the rules of grammar as he did in that line.  But I will try to focus on his intent rather than his skills as a grammarian.

I love my cat.  I am confronted with a harsh dilemma right now.  Cassie, at 12, has recently been diagnosed as diabetic.  I have tried insulin.  However, she will not eat, so insulin becomes problematic.  Although she appears healthy right now, she is losing weight because she is ketotic.  I have to make a decision within the next 24 hours as to whether I will put her down . . . or keep her alive while petsitters care for her in my absence.

On some levels, it appears obvious, doesn't it?  But it is not so easy to say goodbye to a cat who is still purring, being affectionate, lying outside in the sun . . . and not really "acting sick" at all.  If I were not leaving town in a couple of days, I would ride this out, wait for her to show me that she is in pain, and then do the right thing.

The flip side of that coin is that I risk her missing me, becoming ill while I am away, feeling lost and confused, or possibly dying without me here to see her through.

I know that her future, should I take the chance that she has one, will not be the same as the life she has known.  Cassie has always been able to come and go as she pleases, in and out through her "cat door" and dining on her Meow Mix whenever she chooses.  She has gifted me with mouse heads on the doorstep as well as disruptions to my gardening plans.  She has climbed up into the treehouse for summer afternoon naps, then joined me on the front porch swing for evening reflections.  She has located every odd crevice and corner for napping inside this house and pretty much taken over the kitchen counter as her domain.  She has also said goodbye to all of her family (except me) which included three kids, two dogs and her brother cat.  She has always been "a good cat."  And I have loved her.

Her future life would be one of twice-daily injections, monitoring, diet control, and a loss of the freedom she has always enjoyed.

So what does "compassion" tell me to do?  It might be simplistic to assume that the compassionate thing would be to "set her free."  I want desperately to believe that.  But her purr, her affection, her very being challenges that assumption.

I have no answer right now.  I will embrace compassion and trust that it will tell me what to do.

Labyrinth

My neighbors Nancy and Libby came down to visit this afternoon.  Although Libby has watched my pets for me on occasion, I haven't seen Nancy (her mother) much at all, even though we live four houses apart.  Strange how our busy lives make that happen.  But it was wonderful to have some time to catch up with her.

Nancy noticed a book by Thich Nhat Hanh on my coffee table.  Peace Is Every Step:  The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life.  My older daughter gave it to me a year or so ago, but I pulled it out the other day to reread as I struggle with the issue of what to do about a sick cat.  Now, it is probably important to say here that I love the idea of yoga and meditation, but I fall short of actually practicing them.  I have always said that I pretend to do yoga.  And the extent of my meditation practice is just to be mindful of breathing in and breathing out.

Nancy told me that she has a labyrinth and that she uses it as a conduit to prayer.  I was somewhat fascinated by what she was describing to me, so I did a little research on labyrinths after she left.  The simplest definition is "a single non-branching path which leads to the center" but upon further research, I discovered that a labyrinth can be symbolic of a pilgrimage.  One can walk the path, ascending toward salvation or enlightenment.

But then it can get more complicated. In Plato's dialogue Euthydemus, Socrates describes the labyrinthine line of a logical argument:  "Then it seemed like falling into a labyrinth: we thought we were at the finish, but our way bent round and we found ourselves as it were back at the beginning, and just as far from that which we were seeking at first." 

And that pretty much sums up how I feel about this blog.  Sixty days in, and I feel at the end of every day as if I am back at the beginning.  I am traveling this path in order to "ascend" toward "salvation or enlightenment."  In other words, I am hoping that falling in love every day will help me to find love in every day.  But every day, I find myself back at the beginning, starting all over again.

Maybe this is the way it is supposed to be.  I don't know yet.  But having no other choice now, I am in love with the labyrinth and ever hopeful that I will find the center and maybe get to stay there, at least for a little while.  Stay tuned.

Coincidence

There's no such thing as coincidence.  I have been saying that for years and years.  That statement is not a denial of synchronicity, but rather, an attempt to add something meaningful to what might appear to be random.  Or as G.K. Chesterton famously said, "Coincidences are spiritual puns."

Earlier, I was upstairs, looking out my son's bedroom window at the woods beyond my property.  Scanning the dull brown of late March, my eyes were drawn to a splash of something orangy-red.  Finally, the first robin I'd seen!  It was large and proud and showing off in the barren landscape.  I took note, then tucked the memory away in order to move on with my day.

But of course, first I had to check Facebook.  I looked to the upper right of the screen to see whose birthday it might be today.  Robyn Lees.

There's no such thing as coincidence.  But Robyn Lees is dead.  She was lost to cancer last year, far too young, far too kind, far too good to be taken from her friends and family.  I remember writing her a letter when I learned that she'd taken a turn, but as it turned out, she was gone before the letter got to her.  In the letter, I spoke of the following spring, when I would look upon my first robin and think of her.  I love that she reminded me of my promise.  On her birthday, no less.

Was it coincidence that, years ago, when I bought my daughter a used car shortly after her father died that the license plate contained his initials?  Was it coincidence that on the first morning of my son's return home from his freshman year of college, a Great Blue Heron (his father's favorite bird) landed on the roof over his bedroom?  Oh, I could tell you story after story!  Coincidence?  No such thing.

But spiritual puns?  Robyn, who was a student of mine, a creative writer, an editor of our school's literary magazine, would appreciate the beauty of a spiritual pun!  Thank you, Robyn, for giving me something to fall in love with today!

Waiting

Okay, so this one is a test.  Can I fall in love with waiting?  My hope is that by the end of this post, I might be able to embrace it.  That's a tough order.  Think about it . . . when have you ever thought about waiting in a positive way?  Waiting rooms, waiting in line, waiting for your ship to come in . . . these are not necessarily positive experiences, are they?  The best thing that ever happened to "waiting" was Barney's use of "Wait for it!" in How I Met Your Mother.  It's a step.

All of us here are waiting for spring, despite the forecast for snow tomorrow.  My son is waiting for graduation and his move to California for a new adventure.  My daughter in Australia is waiting for a return home and (hopefully) a new job.  My other daughter is waiting for a break from teaching and grading papers so that she can focus on her own writing.  I am waiting for my cat to decide to die.  Or for a miracle that will keep her alive.  Always waiting.

In the late 60s, I discovered the Beat Poets.  Lawrence Ferlinghetti was my favorite.  I still have my copy of A Coney Island of the Mind (1958), which cost me $1.00 when I bought it.  One of my favorite poems in it was "I Am Waiting" in which he goes on a bit of a rant about everything that was wrong in America, but declared at the end of every stanza, "I am awaiting a rebirth of wonder."  And isn't that really what we are all waiting for?

I think the point is that it is better to be waiting for something as opposed to having nothing to wait for.  So I will wait, as patiently as I can, for something to recharge my sense of wonder.  And I will fall in love with the idea that I have something to wait for.

Woodworking

My father was an Industrial Arts teacher.  That's fancy for "shop teacher."  Even back in the 50s, there seemed to be some stigma about the subject matter, hence, our reference to "IA" instead of "shop." 

My father started teaching after his Army stint in the Philippines during WWII.  He did not have a college degree, but rather, an "emergency certificate."  During his tenure as a teacher, he attended night classes, gradually earning the equivalent of two years of college.  A nervous breakdown ended his aspirations toward a degree.

In the late 50s and early 60s, "shop class" was a dumping ground for all the unmanageable boys in the high school.  And that makes sense, right?  Take those angry young men and put them in a crowded room full of dangerous machinery.  My dad was 5'6", and although I was scared to death of him, I can only imagine what it was like for him to try to control 30 teenage boys with raging hormones and a pack of Camels rolled up in their white T-shirt sleeves.  But he did so for about 15 years until he just couldn't take it anymore.  His anger over the amount of money put into sports and physical education while he contended with larger and larger classes exacerbated the situation until one day, he just quit.

Well, Dad, I don't think things are much better now.  In fact, they are probably worse.

There was a brief capsule of time when middle schoolers were exposed to the "Industrial Arts," as well as "Family and Consumer Sciences" (otherwise known as "Home Ec.").  My children were a part of that educational experiment.  I still have the fleece hoodie that my son made as well as the wooden shelves that my daughters made.  Recalling how I wanted to take "Mechanical Drawing" in high school in 1967 and was told "Girls don't take that," I was thrilled that my own children were getting what I considered to be a well-rounded education.

One by one, we have seen these courses dropped from our schools' curricula.  Apparently, sewing, cooking, woodworking, and auto repair are no longer necessary skills. What?

One of my favorite family pastimes when I was little was to help "clean" my dad's machines.  The smell of sawdust can still wrench my heart.  Although today, the authorities might press charges, my father let me sweep the sawdust off his jigsaw and planer and bandsaw with a soft-bristled brush.  I still cringe when I think of all that he could have taught me if only girls were "allowed" to learn his craft.  (In retribution, I took a woodworking class at a local "adult high school" some years ago and made a medicine cabinet and a coffee table.)

But why the love in this post?  Today, I found a small shelf that one of my daughters made in her "shop" class over a dozen years ago.  I painted it to match my kitchen cabinets, and it now has a place on my counter to hold the sugar bowl and salt and pepper shakers.  I am in love with her creation and the opportunity she had to build it herself.

What's Missing

You never miss your water till the well runs dry.

After the bear knocked down the bird feeder, I took it apart and put it away until next fall.  And now, every time I walk past the glass doors that provided me with a view of the feeder, I am acutely aware of what is missing.  I loved watching the birds at the feeder and did so several times a day.  As spring turns into summer, I will think less and less about the bird feeder.  Other loves will humor me throughout my day until it is fall and the feeder goes up again.

Not true with other things that I miss.  Not far from where the feeder was, there used to be a swingset and slide.  Removing it a couple of years ago was a matter of practicality.  Because I was replacing the roof, I had a dumpster in the yard.  It made sense to fill it with anything I needed to get rid of, so there went the swingset.  When I look in that direction, though, I see more than the ghost of a swingset.  I see my children.

I used to have an inground pool and a hot tub.  When I look to the places where they used to be, again, I see my family.

And so it goes.  We spend years and years accumulating things until we become painfully aware that we no longer make use of them.  Deciding to get rid of them is difficult, not because of their value as objects, but because of the memories we have attached to them.  What we ultimately learn, however, is that looking at the places where they used to be can still evoke the memories of a time when they were important to us.


But it takes time.  And it takes even more time when you are missing that which is other than an object.  Like my beautiful Golden Retriever, Mack.  He's been gone over three months now, but still, everywhere I look, I see him and his soulful eyes.  The pain of losing him is still raw, but I believe that in time, I will be able to look at the places where he slept, where he ate, where he wandered off to, and I will see him and not be so sad.


What is missing is what we loved.  If we didn't, we wouldn't be missing them at all.

Bears

How did she know that yesterday was the first day of spring?  Right on schedule, last night, she made her annual pilgrimage to my bird feeder and proceeded to knock it down, bending the iron pipe that secured it to the ground.  Despite the fact that black bears can go 100 days without eating, drinking, pooping, peeing or exercising, they are pretty darn hungry when they wake up.  It is interesting to note that the feeder contained the last of my birdseed for the season, so her timing was spot on.

We have a "problem" with black bears here in the northwestern corner of New Jersey.  In my view, the problem is over-development, not bears.  As everything is politicized these days, there is division between pro- and anti- bear hunt groups.  I refuse to take a position on this.  While I cannot imagine killing one of these gorgeous animals, I am acquainted with some very responsible hunters who make use of their kill.

A couple of summers ago, I awoke one night to the sound of footsteps on gravel outside my bedroom.  When I flicked on the outside lights, there was a mama bear, making her way up onto my deck.  Through the screen door, I admonished her:  "You go away now!"  And she did, sauntering back down the steps.  My neighbors, who'd had a visit from her as well, told me that she was with her two cubs.  (She must have made them wait in the driveway while she checked out my house.)  Bottom line?  I would rather have a bear and her cubs trespassing on my property at night than any human intruders.

Teddy bears were de rigueur when I was a kid.  That stuffed animal, named after Theodore Roosevelt, was bestowed upon nearly every child born post-WWII, and I was no exception.  I still have Teddy, and you can tell by looking at him that he has been quite loved.  He went to college with me and has moved as many times as I have.

I remember when I was quite little, I drew a picture of my teddy bear.  I proudly showed it to my parents.  Instead of telling me what a good job I'd done, they laughed quite heartily.  I was crushed.  When I came across the drawing years later, I got it.  Although you cannot see it in this picture, my teddy has a tail.  Paying attention to detail, I drew that tail, right where I could see it . . . between Teddy's legs.

So how could you not be in love with an animal that gets to sleep for 100 days, waking up for a short spell in January to give birth and then go right back to sleep?  Sounds like a good plan to me.

Spring

I wanted to put an exclamation point after "Spring" in the title, but it's cloudy and drizzly and 45 degrees, so I don't think the day is exclamation point-worthy.  It is, however, the vernal equinox, so of course, I am in love with spring today.

I guess the love today is more about breathing a sigh of relief that the long winter is over, that surely, there will be blue skies and warm air and green things appearing soon.  I did take note of the crocuses breaking through on the path outside my front door.  There is still a good nine inches of snow on my deck, but much of the landscape has rid itself of the dirty stuff.

In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt. ~ Margaret Atwood

Yes!  It won't be long before I will be turning the soil, spreading the compost, readying the garden beds.  My raised beds are filled with black dirt from Pine Island, arguably the best soil one can find.  I will likely purchase a ton of black dirt to top off my beds again this year.  It is delivered in a Big Yellow Bag.  Here's a picture from when I first filled the beds, two years ago.  I shoveled 8 tons of black dirt into those beds.  Yes, I did.  And at the end of the day, I smelled like dirt.  It was good.  And I can't wait to smell that dirt again.

Soon.  For now, it is nice just to know that winter is over.  Even if there's another snowstorm coming next week, winter is over.  Survived another one.  And there is only promise ahead.  Rain and sun and dirt and lots and lots of green.  How could anyone not be in love with all that?

Box of Rain

So click on the link in another window and listen while you read, okay?

http://youtu.be/V4SqDx1vi4c

I find it easy to fall in love with a Grateful Dead tune.  And The Dead are one of the few bands that I can listen to endlessly and never get tired of hearing.  Can't say that about too many bands/artists.  (Others would be Van Morrison, Jackson Browne, The Avett Brothers and The Band.)

So today just seemed like a Grateful Dead kind of day.  And since it's sort of raw and drizzly outside, Box of Rain came to mind.  I read somewhere that when he was asked why he chose the lyric "box of rain," Robert Hunter said that he thought of the world as a ball of rain, but "ball" didn't sound right to his ear.  So it became "box of rain."  And, he quipped, "I don't know who put it there."

Far be it from me to try to crawl into Robert Hunter's head and interpret his lyrics.  And to dissect a Grateful Dead song line by line just seems wrong to me.  That would be akin to critiquing an Impressionist painting dot by dot.  One has to step back and take in the whole thing.  So Box of Rain creates a mood, calls up a dream, pokes at one's certainty, and disturbs one's perception.  Like stumbling through a Salvador Dali painting, I put one foot in front of the other and travel the length of the song.  It's all a dream we dreamed one afternoon long ago.

But the lines that hit me over the head this afternoon are these:  

Walk into splintered sunlight
Inch your way through dead dreams to another land
Maybe you're tired and broken
Your tongue is twisted with words half spoken 
and thoughts unclear

That's just kind of how I feel today.  Iceland was a dream.  My cat's diabetes, unfortunately, is not. Perhaps what I need is a box of rain, something cool and cleansing, something with a promise of renewal.  Spring begins tomorrow.  Maybe that will be my box of rain to wake me from this stupor.  Believe it if you need it.

Medicine

I try not to take any.  Unless, of course, one considers wine medicinal.  But, basically, I do not take anything more than Advil, and only then when the aches and pains demand it.

I got some pretty strong medicine today at the vet's.  Insulin.  It might save my cat's life.

I am a fainter.  I have low blood pressure, so I have what they call a "vasovagal response," meaning that certain triggers can send me to the floor.  The first time this happened, I was a mere child with a gum boil.  My mother (a Chief Yeoman in the Coast Guard, mind you) had nerves of steel, so she decided to take care of this herself.  When she came at me and my boil with a sterilized needle, I blacked out and fell to the floor.  I think she pierced the boil before she grabbed my tongue for fear that I might swallow it.

And then there were many episodes, most of them in church.  There was never time to eat breakfast before Mass, so off I'd go on an empty stomach, straight to the choir loft where I sang (off-key) to whatever Kyrie Eleison we were chanting.  More times than I can count, I ended up on the floor.

My mother made me go to our doctor to get my ears pierced when I was 16.  No pajama party with a potato behind my earlobe and a questionable needle was good enough for me, my mother said.  So I went to the doctor and he pierced one ear.  You guessed it, I was on the floor.  (I heard it go "crunch" and that was the trigger.)  He did the second ear with me lying down.  Hence, the lack of symmetry in my ear piercings.

Whenever I go for bloodwork, I have to tell the person who will draw the blood that I am a fainter.  I get to lie down while she does the deed.  And I never, ever look at what she's doing.

Anyway, in another hour or so, I have to give my cat her first injection of insulin.  I got to practice in the vet's office with a saline injection, and somehow, I managed to pull it off.  But this is different.  This is the real medicine, and it's just me and the cat, who's already rather pissed off at me.

But it's the medicine I am in love with.  Because it might save her.  I just have to remain upright while I try to administer it.

Tune in tomorrow.  I'll let you know how it goes.

Red-winged Blackbird

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free

A Red-winged Blackbird was at my feeder a few minutes ago.  All day, I have been struggling to find something to love.  It's not a good day for me.  I returned from a glorious trip to a sick cat.  I've been in denial about the seriousness of her illness for a couple of weeks now, but it was obvious to me on my return home from six days away that her condition is more dire than I'd imagined.  A trip to the vet today confirmed that.  So having committed myself to falling in love every day, how could I possibly put aside my sorrow to find love?

And then the Red-winged Blackbird appeared.  They are not a rare sighting; actually, they are quite abundant in this area, but their return to the Northeast is late February, early March, and this was the first one I've seen.  Its subtle beauty lightened my mood, if only briefly.  But in that brief moment, I fell in love.

I've written before of my fascination with birds.  I like to think that they are harbingers rather than omens.  And I try to pay attention.  So was it accidental that in my time of sadness and worry that this bird should appear?  Nearly any occurrence in my life conjures music; hence, the Beatles lyrics above.  But also, Neil Young's Birds is compelling and meaningful:

Lover, there will be another one
Who'll hover over you beneath the sun
Tomorrow see the things that never come
Today


I don't know.  I have some processing to do.  But the birds speak of freedom and inevitability and vision beyond the present.  I will try to let them guide and console me.  And I have the Red-winged Blackbird to thank.

Photographs

I spent a chunk of time today creating a Facebook photo album of my trip to Iceland.  I just returned last night, but there are at least two good reasons to get that photo album uploaded, described, and posted.  One is that I am afraid if I don't do it right away, I will forget where a particular picture was taken or what some landmark is called.  The other is that I am so in love with a pictorial documentation of an amazing experience that I've just had.  Viewing my pictures in my camera window just doesn't do justice to the beauty of the landscape.  But to see them on a full computer screen?  Almost like I'm there again.  Almost.

I am of the Kodak Instamatic generation.  (We were one up from the Brownie generation.)  For any younger readers of this blog, what you need to understand is that we had to buy actual film for the camera.  Each roll of film was good for 12, 24 or 36 pictures and was priced accordingly.  In other words, you had to pay before you even took a picture.  And then you had to decide if a subject was film-worthy.  You would not, for instance, take nine pictures of Gullfoss Falls because that would use up 3/4 of your 12-picture roll of film that you'd just paid for.  There was also no way to know if you'd taken a good picture.  You just had to hope that you were in focus and that you got a good shot on the first (and only) try.

When you'd finished taking a roll of film, there was the fear that you might accidentally expose the film.  Again, no way of knowing if you had while you filled out the information on the envelope and dropped the film into the slot at your local supermarket for pick-up the next day.  And then you waited a week for the pictures to be returned to the supermarket.  Receipt in hand, you excitedly went to the counter to pick up your photos.  Of course, you had to pay for the development of the film because this was different than purchasing the film.  And you had to pay before you even knew if the pictures were any good.

Once the transaction was complete, you could race out to the car, rip open the envelope, and view your pictures.  You might have a collection of blurry images or even some black nothingness because the flash didn't go off.  (Don't even get me started on flash cubes.)  Or you could have someone else's pictures.  Mistakes were made.  If that was the case, you would return the unfamiliar pictures to the store and hope that whoever had your pictures would do the same.  But chances are, you would never see your pictures in this lifetime.  They likely ended up in someone's garbage.

Or you might be lucky and have some good pictures. Many of us have found our old pictures in our "magnetic" photo albums.  They are blurry and bathed in an orange hue.  Nonetheless, they speak of an event in our lives that we must have felt was important to remember.  And so we do remember.  And I guess we don't really mind that the quality of the photo sucks.  It's a picture that comes into focus in living color in our memory.

But now?  With digital point-and-shoot cameras or iPhones?  You can take 200 pictures of Gullfoss Falls without ever once thinking that you were being wasteful.  And then you can pick the best one and delete the other 199 of them.  Everybody has hundreds upon hundreds of pictures.  Is it possible to love them all?

I think so.

The Viking Spirit

The Vikings (also known as the "Wikings," depending on the pronunciation preference of various Icelanders) settled in Iceland over 1000 years ago.  Although I am not well-versed in their history, I do know that their spirit is alive and well here.  And there is nothing barbarian about it.

Competition is prevalent between the North and the South, but it is a happy rivalry.  Every school child plays three sports, but Iceland still manages to have the highest literacy rate in the world at over 99%.  Higher education is paid for here, and all Icelanders learn, in addition to their native Icelandic language, English and Danish.

Environmentally, Iceland wins hands down on sustainable living.  They make use of the geothermal hot springs to heat their homes and water, and produce is grown year-round in massive greenhouses.

All rescue work in Iceland is volunteer.  If a tour bus returns minus one passenger, an all-out effort will be made by volunteers to find and return that passenger.  (No, this did not happen to me.)

But it was on the issue of gun control that I was most impressed.  Most Icelanders own guns, some registered, some not, but they are only used for hunting.  You may not use a gun to protect yourself, your family or your home.  The penalty for doing so is a lengthy prison term, not worth the price.  Even the police do not carry guns.  Or billy clubs.  Or any other weapons.  (I think maybe they get to carry a small amount of pepper spray.)  Their purpose is to serve and protect, and Icelanders believe that guns will only cause a situation to escalate into something worse.

Currently, in the entire country of Iceland, there are 84 criminals in prison.

I am told that the Viking Spirit can be summed up in a very few words:  "We can do it."  I am in love with that spirit.

Fire and Ice

We come from the land of the ice and snow,
from the midnight sun where the hot springs blow. 

Almost four years ago, a volcano in Iceland erupted, sending clouds of ash straight to Europe, resulting in the cancellation of over 100,000 flights.  For many of us, it was an introduction to the Icelandic language, as we tried to pronounce the name of the volcano:  Eyjafjallajokull.

There are 130 volcanoes in Iceland, the most famous being Hekla and Katla.  Lava rock decorates the landscape here, at least when it's not covered in snow.

On the other extreme, the largest glacier in Europe, Vatnajokull, is in Iceland.  It is also the third largest glacier in the world.

I am in love with fire and ice.

Iceland has, bubbling beneath the ground, geothermal hot springs.  Ever resourceful, Icelanders have figured out how to heat their homes and water using this precious gift.  During our time in Akureyri, we saw the insulated pipes that carry the boiling water downhill to the lower communities, where the heat is regulated to make it safe for the homeowners.  On the other extreme, if you turn on the tap for cold water, you will be rewarded with the coldest, purest water that has ever passed your lips.  Fire and ice.

Mountain and ocean.  Night and day.  North and south.  Joy and sorrow.  Good and evil.  Love and hate.  Fire and ice.


The duality of opposites.  I embrace it all.

Northern Lights

It was not our good fortune to see a spectacular display of the Northern Lights here in Akureyri.  But we did see them, shifting and expanding shafts of green lights right beneath Jupiter.

We had two nights in which we headed out on a bus with Armann, our guide, in search of the Lights.  As both nights had less-than-ideal weather conditions, we were unable to find them.  The search involves several stops in which we exit the bus and wait patiently, enjoying hot chocolate and kleina, a small, flat doughnut.  There is optimism and laughter until midnight approaches with no sightings yet.  On the first night, during which we were gifted with snowfall, there was a snowman built to mark our efforts.  The ride back to the hotel after midnight is mostly quiet, with everyone trying to hide their disappointment.

But Armann kept telling us on the first night that he believed strongly the Lights would appear between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m.  So on our return to the hotel, we changed into our pajamas, poured the wine, and waited hopefully for someone to yell out a sighting.

Sure enough, shortly after 2:00 a.m., the call was made, and we grabbed our jackets, gloves, hats and cameras and headed outside the hotel to stare into the northern sky.  And there they were.  The green color is the result of nitrogen, I was told, and apparently nitrogen was the only guest invited to the sky on this night, because green is all we saw.  The city lights prevented us from seeing what might have been magnificent a few kilometers away, but the Lights shifted and moved, expanded and stretched, twisting into serpentine coils of magic.

Our joy at seeing what we'd come here to see was palpable.  Although the Lights that we saw are nothing compared to the National Geographic photos or the youtube time-lapse videos or the tourism brochures to entice you to visit here, we can say that we saw the Northern Lights, and how many people can say that?

So I am in love with their green skirts, their circle dance around Jupiter, and their grace in allowing me to peek into the starry banquet room and verify that they do, indeed, exist.

The Herring Girls

After a short flight from Reykjavic, we arrived in Akureyri.  The ride from the airport to the hotel revealed the magical landscape of the northern coast.  Snow-covered trees shimmered against a never-ending white background.

We opted for a private tour to a herring museum, because, hey, we know how to have fun in Iceland.  Siglufjordur was once the world's most famous herring town, an industry that shaped Iceland's destiny as a modern society.  In the earlier part of the 20th century, Icelanders incorporated new fishing technologies to become the main exporters of salted herring.  This ultimately led to their ability to declare their independence from Denmark in 1944.

But I am not in love with herring.  In fact, I have never tasted herring, and if the stories I hear from those who have are true, I don't want to.

I am in love with the Herring Girls.

During Siglufjordur's heyday as the world's herring capital, the summer months of 24-hour sun were full of bustling activity as the herring had to be beheaded, gutted, and salted quickly.  The salting stations employed between 80 and 120 workers, mostly women, for this purpose.  They came from all over Iceland to live in Siglo (the lazy way to say the town's name) and work long hours outside.  When the weather was fine, the hours passed quickly, but bad weather made the work akin to slavery, endless and terrible.

The Herring Girls were paid "by the barrel," so speed was crucial to their ability to end the summer profitably.  The men, on the other hand, were paid by the hour, so there was no pressure for them to be quick and efficient.  The Herring Girls were able to behead and gut the fish with one stroke of their knives and called out for a "New barrel!" as soon as the one they were filling was nearly done.  Their dependence on the men to get them a new barrel in a timely fashion put the girls at the mercy of the men.  I will not speculate on how each girl assured that she would get the quick response she needed.

In their off-hours, the workers enjoyed music and drinking and dancing, and if the stories are true, that is what they remember of their summers of long and tedious work.

In 1969, due to over-fishing by Norway, Iceland and Russia, the herring failed to show up, and the town of Siglufjordur was pretty much abandoned.  "Herring comes and herring goes."  And so did the Herring Girls.

I am in love with their history, work ethic, optimism, and their ability to help support their families under terrible conditions.  But mostly, I am in love with their happy memories of a time in their youth when they danced and made merry under the midnight sun.

Storytelling

In my early 20s, I discovered J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit and fell in love with Middle Earth.  I fell deeper and deeper as I worked my way through The Lord of the Rings trilogy, even naming my Irish Setters "Brandybuck" and "Strider" (whose papered name was "Aragorn").

Another trilogy that I didn't discover until many years later, thanks to my daughter's insistence that I read it, was Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials (called Northern Lights in Europe), the most famous book being the first one, The Golden Compass.  The word dark in the trilogy title is key, as Pullman's journey into the Underworld is compelling and disturbing.

And yes, I did fall in love with all seven of the Harry Potter series, as well as the movies.

Storytelling is an Icelandic tradition, and the history of Iceland is told through its literature and mythology, dating back to the Vikings.  In a land populated by trolls and faeries and 13 Santa Clauses, legends are made of the magical.

I am in Iceland now and spent a long afternoon touring The Golden Circle, learning the history and geology of the country through the storytelling of our guide, Svan (pronounced "Swan").  His tales of Vikings and Pagans and puffins and ravens enchanted me for several hours, along with breathtaking views of Gullfoss Falls, the erupting geyser Strokkur, and Langjokull, the lake at the heart of the Great Divide, which may one day separate Iceland in two.

Some believe that storytelling is a lost art.  I do not agree.  There is too much love invested in the folklore to ever threaten its power to educate and entertain.  Here in Iceland, where the literacy rate is over 99%, it is said that 10% of the population will publish a book at some point in their lives.  Share the love, Iceland.

Bucket List

What's listed in my bucket isn't important.  What's important is that I have a bucket list.  Or, rather, that I continue to work on a bucket list, adding things, crossing things out, checking things off.  Zip-lining, check.  Snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef, check.  Observing a wine valley from a hot-air balloon . . . no check yet.

We've all been victims of the belief that there is plenty of time in this life to do the things that begin as dreams.  But as many of us have sadly discovered, that's not always true.  How many of us will get to leave this existence saying, "Yep, I did everything I wanted to do!"  Well, nobody, really.  There's got to be something you didn't get to do!  How many of us will leave this plane with deep regrets?  The way things have been going, I think too many.

There's something in the middle, and that's where I want to be.  No, I didn't get to see The Doors or John Lennon.  But I have seen The Sistine Chapel and the Parthenon.  I didn't get to meet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, but I rode a horse into Bryce Canyon.  I have never been to a Tupperware Party, but . . . wait, that was never on the bucket list!  And it never will be, so please do not invite me.

For twenty years, I shared a home and children with a beautiful man.  He didn't get to check off as many things on his bucket list as he would have liked, but he taught me to get out there and do stuff.  I suspect he is there with me as I travel, taking it all in with me.  At least, that's what I choose to believe.

Now about that novel I want to write . . . that's on the list, right under the hot-air balloon adventure.

I'm heading out now to check something else off.  Be back in a few days!

What Lies Beneath

Here in northwest New Jersey, there is still quite a bit of snow on the ground.  In places where the sun doesn't shine, there's a good foot or more, glazed over with a hard, icy surface.  Most of us forget what our yards even look like, as mountains of shoveled snow have created distortions in whatever landscapes we thought we had.  I built a stone wall along one side of my driveway, and I am not looking forward to finding out what condition it is in.  I keep finding large stones from my wall across the street, having been inadvertently moved there by well-meaning plows.

Yesterday, it was warm enough to hack away at some of the remaining ice and snow in the driveway.  In doing so, I found my daughter's car, buried there for months now.  It's parked in one of those places where the sun doesn't shine, so I won't be able to clear a path for another couple of weeks to move it.  Battery's dead, anyway.  By the time she returns from Australia this summer, I should have it out and running.  God willin' and the creek don't rise.

Also yesterday, I relocated some flexible drainpipes from one side of the house to the other.  They are needed to  divert the snowmelt that might otherwise cause some flooding in my basement, if and when it ever gets warm enough.  In removing the drainpipes from their original place, I was shocked to discover bright yellow-green growth underneath.  My initial reaction was something like, "What the hell is THAT?"  Having gotten used to a landscape that is mostly brown and white (with some dirty gray thrown in), this neon color threw me off.

And then I realized, with awe and wonder . . . daffodils!  Absolutely amazing that underneath this frozen insistence, nature carries on as if . . . well, as if it's almost spring.  And I know that what lies beneath other mounds of snow on my property are crocuses, tulips, ferns, hostas, primrose, echinacea, ajuga, pachysandra, and oh, too much to list!

Surfaces are often cold and hard.  They can be protective, but they are also sometimes false.  It takes courage to test their strength, knowing that you could fall through.  But if and when you do, you might find beauty and promise in what lies beneath.

Go back and read that last paragraph again.  Then fall in love with the metaphor, okay?

Sudoku

Okay, it's really a love-hate thing, but I am trying to be positive about this falling-in-love challenge.

I have always loved puzzles, I guess.  Crossword puzzles, jigsaw puzzles, cryptograms.  Brain-teasers?  Not so much.  But every morning, I manage two Sudokus, a crossword puzzle, and a cryptogram (the last being my favorite).  At my age, there is some pressure to keep the brain sharp, so I consider it exercise more than pleasure.  At least, that's how I justify all the time I "waste" on puzzles.

I find the puzzles in my morning newspapers.  Whereas contemporary wisdom likes to suggest that we nerds drool over the NY Times Sunday crossword puzzle, I do not think Sunday is where the obsession is.  In case you are not a puzzler, here's how it works:  the level of difficulty increases from Monday to Saturday.  Sunday's puzzles are just bigger, not necessarily more difficult, at least as far as crossword puzzles go.

So Saturday is the day.  That's where you'll find the most challenging crossword puzzle.  But that is just a warm-up for MEGA SUDOKU!!

A regular, everyday Sudoku is a 9 X 9 grid, and my success rate with them is probably about 99%.  But Saturday's MEGA SUDOKU is a 16 X 16 grid, so it's a real challenge.  I am not kidding you when I tell you that I usually spend an entire day (on and off) trying to complete that puzzle.  And my success rate?  About 50%.  But that pathetic statistic just makes me want to try harder.  The problem is that you could make a mistake very early on and not even realize it until you think you've almost completed the grid.

Kind of like life, huh?

I did not succeed today.  Like I said, it's love-hate thing.  I will convince myself to love my failure and try again next Saturday.

Poetry

I hesitated to commit to a post about falling in love with poetry, because the fear of having to write a novel about my love of poetry clouded my thinking.  But poets learn to condense emotion into evocative particles, so I am going to try to incorporate that skill here.  Feel free to exit at any point if I carry on too long.

I cannot remember falling in love with poetry.  I suspect it happened before I was born.  I do remember realizing that I could rhyme in second grade, and my first poems were written then.  (The sun is like a blanket to me / as it covers the earth with its sunshine. / A wonderful feeling comes over me / as if the whole world is mine.)  I found a cohort in Kathie, and we wrote poems about animals together in fourth grade.  And so it went on, until I discovered e. e. cummings in high school.  He rocked my world, but that was nothing compared to what the Beat Poets did to me.

So many years of reading, studying, writing and teaching poetry later, I am still in love with poetry.

There was poetry in my day today.  Mary posted a May Sarton poem on my wall.  I read it four times.  And then Stephanie posted something about her little guy thinking that when you die, you go to college (instead of heaven) and I recalled a poem I wrote when Sam was little.  He thought God had a remote control to send people from their graves up to heaven.  When your kid says something like that, you just have to write a poem.  I sent it to Stephanie and we had a nice chat.

It would seem fitting to end this post with a poem.  This is a little gem written by David Allan Evans.  Despite its small size, it packs a wallop.  It's a great example of the power poetry has to evoke emotion.  Go ahead, read it.  Then read it again.  Then say, "Wow!"  And you will be in love with poetry too.


          Bullfrogs
                   for Ernie, Larry, and Bob

sipping a Schlitz
we cut off the legs,
packed them in ice, then
shucked the rest back into
the pond for turtles

ready to go home
we looked down and saw
what we had thrown back in:
quiet-bulging eyes nudging along
the moss's edge, looking up at us,

asking for their legs

Mango

I picked up some fruit before Sam came home last weekend, including, at his request, a couple of mangoes.  I put them on the windowsill to ripen and we both forgot about them.  This was lucky for me, because now they are mine!  I cut one of them up (a labor of love), added some avocado cubes and a little chunky salsa, and went at it with some tortilla chips.  I will wait here while you go grab something to wipe up the drool on your chin.  Never mind, just use your sleeve.  It's okay.

In Uganda, mangoes are officially "The King of Fruit."  How can Uganda get that so right and get far more important things so wrong?  Seriously, let's get out of Uganda.

How about Jamaica?  The headline in The Jamaica Observer today says "Man gets 30 days for stealing four mangoes."  He claimed that the fruit was on tree branches that were hanging over the property-line fence and so he wasn't stealing.  But I guess mango-theft is a big deal in Jamaica, and the local courts are pretty fed up with it, so he got 30 days.  The mangoes were valued at $800.  (We will assume that is not in US dollars.)

Now moving on to Australia, we find that the Mangogate mystery has been solved.  Australians like big things, especially to advertise.  I myself checked out the Big Golden Guitar in Tamworth when I was there.  It stands 40 feet tall and draws attention to the "Country Music Capital of Australia."  (That tiny purple and white thing at the base is me.)  By varying accounts, there are between 140 and 160 "big things" in Australia, including the Big Cassowary, the Big Crab, the Big Lobster, the Big Koala and the Big Croc.  Fruits are big there, too, with the Big Pineapple, the Big Banana, the Big Apple, the Big Orange, and the Big Cherries.  And yes, the Big Mango.

The Big Mango is located in Bowen, the self-proclaimed "Mango Capital" in North Queensland.  Last month, the 33-foot tall mango up and disappeared from its home in Bowen, and the story made international news.  Of course, it was a publicity stunt, orchestrated by Nando, a chicken restaurant chain.  Under cover of night, Nando stole the Big Mango and trucked it to Melbourne, where they propped it up next to a Big Lime and gave out free samples of their new Mango and Lime Chicken.  One can only hope that it's a Big Seller to make up for the money they spent on stealing the Big Mango.

Meanwhile, I have another mango on my windowsill to fall in love with.  I will allow the taste of it to take me back to Agnes Water Beach in Oz where I stayed at the Mango Tree Motel and spent Christmas on the beach.  Ummm, so much love!

Laziness

I was going to look for a jazzy quote to begin this post, but I was too lazy.

The laziness kicked in as soon as I woke up this morning.  I yawned through my usual morning routines (coffee, papers, puzzles, breakfast, dishes) and then, at the point where I would normally determine what the task(s) of the day would be, I buckled under the weight of laziness.  I just didn't want to tackle anything.  I paid one bill, folded a load of laundry, fed the cat.  Still no motivation.  Played a couple of online Scrabble games, checked my email, took care of some cyber business.  Ugh.  I just don't want to DO anything!  So I watered the plants while I tried to talk myself into a project.  I was still thinking about it when I filled the bird feeder and again when I sealed the countertops.  What is wrong with me?  Why am I such a slug?

By the time I organized the CD cabinet, I was really upset with myself and my lack of productivity.  Even running the vacuum failed to inspire me.  In frustration, I completed my daughter's income taxes and updated my engagement calendar, cursing myself for not planning ahead.  By now, half the day was over, and what had I accomplished?

Sometimes, when I am this angry with myself, it helps to punch some pillows, which I did while changing the sheets on my bed.  And then, halfway through recycling the newspapers and junk mail, I had an epiphany . . . it's OKAY to be lazy sometimes.  Isn't it?  Not being sure, I googled "laziness" and found an article in Psychology Today called The Lure of Laziness by Nando Pelusi, Ph.D.  After slogging through a lot of psychobabble about procrastination and short-term exigency and immediate returns and impulsivity and instant gratification, I got to the end of the article and found this:

Relaxation differs from laziness in that it is a reward for a completed task.  Let yourself relax after a period of sustained effort.

Well, I did fold the laundry, right?

So at 3:00 in the afternoon, I sat down in the reclining loveseat that faces the birdfeeder and I opened a book.  And I fell in love.

Call it what you will.

Afternoon Light

There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons --

And that's as much as you're going to get from me of that famous Emily Dickinson poem.  As far as I'm concerned, she descends into a darkness that sounds and feels pretty depressing.  And I have never been depressed by afternoon light.

These days, in early March, there is daylight until about 6:00 p.m.  And in less than a week, we will move our clocks ahead and greet Daylight Savings Time, extending our daylight hours into after-dinner territory.  I know that DST is controversial, but I am not going to take a position on it.  While part of me thinks it's kind of dumb to mess with the clocks, I will also admit to getting a bit giddy at what we might perceive as "longer days."  I love that Native American response to DST:  Only a white man would believe that you could cut a foot off the top of a blanket and sew it to the bottom of a blanket and have a longer blanket.

But no matter what the clock says, there is still that certain slant of light in late afternoon.  For me, it is a contemplative time, a time of slowing down and reflecting on what came before.  It quietly asks for peace, suggests the possibility of pensive solitude.

The sun edges beyond our kitchen window, 
swirling like a Van Gogh sunburst into a late afternoon nap.

That wasn't Emily, that was me.  A piece of a poem I wrote many years ago, trying to articulate what that light evokes for me.  Of course, I failed.  I would not expect that I could put it into words, because I think what that light does for me is wordless, ethereal, but also a kind of promise.  It calms and invigorates me at the same time.  It is, indeed, a certain slant.

And I am in love with it, this afternoon and every afternoon to come.

Sam

To say that I fell in love with my son today would be a lie.  Because I fell in love with him before he was born and I have never fallen out of love with him.  But today is his birthday, so he gets this post.

Sam was born 22 years ago.  I was 42 at the time.  Do the math, and you will see that I am old enough to be his grandmother.  Despite that, my son will still invite me to spend his birthday with him going out for lunch and a movie.  And that's what we did.  Sam and I don't get to spend too much time together, so we appreciate the time we do get.  In a couple of months, Sam will graduate from college and head out to California, where he has an internship with the United States Forestry Service.  Friends like to tell me that once he goes to California, he will never come back home.  Perhaps that will happen, perhaps not.  I just want my kids to be happy, wherever they land.

Sam was ten when his dad died.  Do I need to tell you how crappy that is?  After that, Sam lived in a house of women:  me and his two older sisters.  And one by one, his sisters left for college, and for Sam's high school years, it was just him and me.  It was not easy, for either one of us.  The day I took Sam up to the University of Vermont was one of the saddest and happiest days of my life.  Sad for the obvious reasons, but happy because I knew that this experience was going to be Sam's salvation.  I was not wrong about that.

Sam has proven in so many ways that he is his father's son.  His love of learning, his laid-back attitude, his yearning for a better world, his kindness, his tolerance, his curiosity . . . all of these things are redolent of his father.  I am so proud of the man he has become, and I look forward to seeing where he will go, what he will do, whose heart he will win over, what kind of life he will create for himself.

Happy birthday, Sam.  I will forever be in love with you.  XO

Levon's Barn

If you read yesterday's blogpost, you might have seen this one coming.  Sam and I headed up to Woodstock for a Midnight Ramble at Levon's Barn.  If you are a fan of The Band, you know that Levon Helm died nearly two years ago.  In an effort to keep the music and Levon's legacy alive, there have been events held since his death to "keep it goin'," which is what Levon had requested before he died.  A more dedicated base of fans than Team Levon you may never meet.

Prior to and since Levon's death, I have been to several Midnight Rambles.  I was actually at the very last one that Levon took part in, with Los Lobos as his guests.  Every Ramble I attended was well worth the cost and the nearly two-hour drive up there.  The Barn holds about 200 people, all of them just so happy to be in this incredible venue, listening to amazing music.  Last night was no exception, despite the painful absence of Levon in the flesh.  But, as everyone knows, his spirit is there.

"The Weight" is the name of last night's band.  They played, almost exclusively, the music of The Band.  (Brian Mitchell, keyboard player extraordinaire, could not resist throwing in a little Mardi Gras music, much to everyone's delight.)  All five of the members of The Weight have played at one time or another with The Band or with The Levon Helm Band.

I was fortunate to have seen The Band a few times when all five of them were alive.  The first time was at the Watkins Glen music festival in 1973, along with The Allman Brothers and The Grateful Dead.  And then in 1974, I saw The Band and Bob Dylan together a couple of times.  It was the first time I'd seen Bob Dylan, and I thought I was in the same house with god, even if it was Madison Square Garden.  Good times.  I also saw Rick Danko a couple of times, most notably three months before he died.  And I've lost count of how many times I've seen Levon.

So to be at Levon's Barn, so full of history and sound and a shared love of music, is to fall in love.  Add to this that it was the third Ramble I have attended with my son.  (At a previous Ramble, Levon bestowed his drumsticks on Sam after the show.)  There are 42 years between Sam and me, but our love of this music transcends age.  At Levon's Barn, we are just two kids getting lost in some of the best music ever made.

Homecomings

I am waiting for my son to arrive any minute now.  So if this post ends abruptly, you will know why.

Sam goes to school in Vermont, where he loves to ski and where there has not been as much snow as here in northwest New Jersey.  This is Spring Break, and he is driving his new vehicle home to spend a few days with me.  We're heading up to Woodstock, NY as soon as he gets here for a Midnight Ramble at Levon Helm's barn/studio.  Tonight's show is The Weight, an assortment of amazing musicians who will play the music of The Band.  Sam and I share a love of a lot of the same music, and The Band ranks high for both of us.  Call tonight's concert an early birthday present; my little boy turns 22 on Monday.

But meanwhile, it's worry time.  Can't help it; I'm a mom.  The closer it gets to his expected arrival, the more anxious I get, and you can take that two ways.  But once I hear his steps on the front porch, all worry will be lifted!

For now, I have some pacing to do, some looking out the window, some wringing my hands.

And once that part is over, I am in love with the homecoming.